


kissed the cobbler's wife

by meretricula



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Angry Sex, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-18
Updated: 2012-02-18
Packaged: 2017-10-31 09:01:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/342271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meretricula/pseuds/meretricula
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Silva throws a tantrum, Adam displays unexpected reserves of self-restraint and Joe winds up seeing way more than he bargained for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	kissed the cobbler's wife

**Author's Note:**

> originally written for ladytelemachus as part of the valentinesplay exchange.

Joe really liked Silva. He hadn't expected to - he'd thought he'd be some kind of suck-up teacher's pet, considering the lovesick way the gaffer talked about him. (Joe hadn't known the gaffer all that well at that point. He'd brought _Mario_ in. Suck-up teacher's pets were really not what he liked.) But Silva was a good lad. Nice, a good time when they went out. 

Which was a good thing, because on the rare occasion that things didn't go his way, Silva was an utter pissant _bitch_. 

"The fuck is he even on about?" Joe asked Zaba, a good five minutes into Silva's screaming tirade. Johno had stopped even trying to interrupt; he just sat there with his arms crossed over his chest and a stony expression on his face. Gaz was trapped next to him on the bench and looked like he'd rather be sat across from the gaffer after Mario had sent him off in one of his Italian fits. 

Pablo screwed up his face, listening intently. If even Zaba couldn't understand it, Joe didn't know what kind of hell-beast language Silva was speaking; it sure as fuck wasn't English, or not any form of it Joe recognized. Every once in a while there was a word that he thought he knew, but even accounting for Silva's accent and idiosyncratic speech patterns, none of it fit together into proper sentences. "Ah," Zaba said at last. "Johno, he leave his boots in front of Silva's cu-bi-cle," he sounded out slowly. "Silva, he can trip, no? He say, Johno he can put his things away in his locker and then Silva he does not fall and break his very expensive face." Zaba let out a little chuckle, then realized Joe was staring at him and added belatedly, "Uh, this is short way of what he say." 

"Yeah, I could guess," Joe muttered. Silva was still going. When he finally stopped, his entire tiny body heaving for more air, he still didn't look calm; he just looked like he'd run out of words. 

"You done?" Johno asked. Silva glared at him in mutinous silence. "Good. Come on, we're going." 

"He's gonna murder him," Joe realized out loud after Johno had dragged Silva out of the room. 

"I do not think - " Pablo said doubtfully. 

"No, Zaba, listen, we are _fucked_ if Johno kills Silva, we'll never make Europe without him. Shit." 

"Leave it, mate," Nigel said. "Silva can take care of himself, eh?" He and Pablo shared a grin, like they knew something Joe didn't. "More like Silva will kill _him_." 

Joe let them think they'd convinced him, but as soon as he was dressed he snuck out of the locker room to find Johno. With their luck he'd probably botch hiding the body, and then they'd be short _two_ wingers after Adam got shipped off to prison. 

He was looking for a good long while, so he gave credit to Johno for finding a secluded spot to commit aggravated assault. Finally, down God knew how many winding hallways, Joe heard sounds coming from one of the storage rooms. He braced himself against the knowledge that he was about to become accessory to a murder and pushed the door open. 

Nigel and Zaba were right about one thing: Johno wasn't trying to kill Silva. 

Joe squinted, trying to think of any other possible interpretation of what he was seeing, but the window of plausible deniability was long gone. That was Silva pinned up against the wall, and Johno was holding him there while he fucked the living daylights out of him. Even that hadn't shut Silva up; he was swearing at Johno like a sailor. Underneath his embarrassment, Joe felt a strange sense of pride. He had taught Silva about half of the words he was calling Adam. Of course, Johno had probably taught him the other half himself. 

"God, you're such a little bitch," Johno panted, just before Joe could quietly close the door and pretend he'd never seen them. "Can't even fuck it out of you, huh? What's it gonna take?" 

The noise Silva made didn't even sound _human_ , let alone like words. He threw his head back and cracked it against the wall, hard enough that Johno stopped to check he hadn't hurt himself. Joe froze in the doorway, waiting for recognition to dawn in Silva's now open eyes. It didn't. Instead he clawed at Johno's back until he started fucking him again, still staring blindly in Joe's direction without giving any sign that he could actually see him. It was creepy as fuck. 

After all the shouting Silva had been doing, Joe was halfway expecting some sort of banshee wails out of him, but he got very quiet instead; Joe only realized that he must have come after the fact, when he slumped forward onto Adam. Johno was louder, but he didn't keep at it much longer. He let Silva's legs slide back down to the floor after he was done, and then he had to catch him around the waist to keep him from wobbling. "All right?" Johno said. They had mostly moved out of his line of sight now, but Joe could just barely see Johno stroking Silva's side. Objectively Joe knew Silva was pretty pale after a season bundled up against the English weather, but his skin looked dark in contrast to Adam's fingers. "You shouldn't get yourself so worked up over it, pet," he added, sounding both gentler and more sincere than Joe could ever remember hearing him. "We'll win next year." 

"This is not enough," Silva snapped, though Johno had apparently tired him out too much for any more screaming. He briefly swayed into Joe's view and then back again. "Win now. Win _always_." 

"It'd be nice, wouldn't it," Johno said, and then he laughed. Silva made a sound like a tiny teakettle about to boil. "Hey. Hey. I know, all right? I know. We will. Or I guess you get to kill us all for not trying hard enough." The arm around Silva's waist pulled him all the way out of Joe's sight, and he took that as his cue to get out while the going was good. Once he was far enough out of earshot, he even started to whistle. He felt almost uplifted. Nobody had died, Silva was hopefully fucked into a better mood, and Adam was right: they'd win next year, or Silva'd kill them trying. Either way, it was something to look forward to.

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. this takes place during the 2010-11 season, in case that wasn't obvious.   
> 2\. title and cut-text come from the nursery rhyme "Pop Goes the Weasel," which is itself a reference to the interview with Joe Hart in which he described David Silva as "a mixture between a wizard and a little weasel, more weasel than wizard" ([source](http://youtu.be/Tbd7zfRDgHI?t=20s))   
> 3\. according to [this interview](http://youtu.be/xBlA1gcsqOA), Adam Johnson, Joe Hart and Gareth Barry taught Silva how to swear in English.   
> 4\. not entirely sure this is legit, but apparently Silva and Adam's cubicles were next to each other last season. ([source](http://please-infatuation-dance.tumblr.com/post/15946901759/their-dressing-room-cubicles-are-next-to-each))  
> 5\. many thanks to Kisa, who gave me a lot of wonderful advice about what ladytelemachus might like to read, most of which I ended up ignoring because that's the way I roll. sorry. :( Kisa is awesome, it's not her fault I'm incapable of following directions!


End file.
